


Vintage

by ChampagneSly



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Romance, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-13
Updated: 2012-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-29 11:00:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChampagneSly/pseuds/ChampagneSly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A smutty/romantic one-shot, continuation fic based in the "My Heart is Drenched in Wine" universe featuring Antonio, Lovino and the wonders of the vineyard at night.</p><p>Spain, Romano, a touch of romance, some smut, and some wine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vintage

By the time the summer sun had sunk low enough to cool the air to something bordering on tolerable, Lovino’s entire being throbbed with the ache of far too much hard work. His hands were layered in dust and the scent of warm, dry vines, his clothes likely beyond salvation after a day of crouching and inspecting the first fruit growth. All day he had gone painstakingly row by row through the Bodega’s most prized Tempranillo plot, deciding how many grapes to cull in the hopes of forcing the remaining fruit to grow bold and rich, perfect for the tour de force wine he was determined to tempt from the wondrous old vines he prized so dearly.

His Gran Reserva. The wine that he so intended to put him on the fucking map, to validate every choice he'd made to get to this point, tired and sweaty amidst some of the best fruit he'd ever grown.

It was soothing, even if his knees and his back protested that such treatment was fucking barbaric, to be out in the vineyards alone, sweeping through these lands like a king or an artist seeking just the right tones for his masterpiece. In the heat of the midday, Lovino had given into the indolence the Spanish sun demanded, retreating into the cavernous damp of his cellar, resting on the cool flagstones and daydreaming about what tortures Antonio was facing in a tasting room and restaurant overrun by tourists and pseudo-aficionados desperate to get their fill of the wine world’s new golden boys.

The asshole could keep them, Lovino thought with a smirk as he pruned another bunch, rubbing his sore shoulder with his free hand, feeling infinitely grateful for the sudden breeze that ghosted over the rolling Rioja hills, bringing relief from the seemingly endless June heat.

He wondered idly how late it was, how long he had been toiling like a goddamned farmhand when he was the ruler of half of the greatest wine empire in Italy, how much longer he would need to put hand to vine before he could go back into the house and demand that Antonio fucking make it up to him, reward him for all the hard work he’d been doing so the winery would be great once more.

All he knew for certain was that it was too fucking late in the day to be bothering with the annoyance of shoes or the stickiness of a sweat and dirt stained shirt when he still had half a row to go before he could collect his king’s ransom from Antonio's generous coffers and kitchen.

Barefoot, pants rolled up, and in his sleeveless shirt, dirty and disheveled, Lovino was thankful that he was alone amongst the grapes, that there were no wandering eyes to catch him looking far too much like that bastard Rome in his prime, a rough and tumble degenerate of the vine.

He had only just begun to hum some stupid song Veronique had taught him years ago when they fought so hard to wring something from the stubborn fruit of the Villa Solare when an impassioned and far too familiar voice gasping _“Oh!”_ startled Lovino right out of his good mood and into an angry, embarrassed flush.

The song dying in his throat along with much of his pride, Lovino refused to turn around to witness Antonio’s witless pleasure at discovering Lovino in such disarray, opting instead to greet his unwelcome guest with a bunch of grapes chucked over his shoulder and a grumbled:

“What the fuck is it, bastard? I’m working.”

In spite of the lingering warmth of the evening, Lovino still shivered at the touch of Antonio’s presumptuous fingers tracing through the damp curls at the back of his neck, pressing in gently against his scalp. He stared at the shoes that came to rest on either side of his knees, suddenly far too conscious of his own bare feet and for shit excuse of a shirt, wondering why it was he felt more exposed half-dressed in his vineyards than he did naked and spread out on their bed.

Antonio’s voice as he answered Lovino’s question was rich and dirty like the earth under his fingernails, “I can see that, sweetheart. Though for a moment I thought perhaps I had found Bacchus in my fields.”

Lovino’s face burned, hands grasping too tightly against the gnarled folds of the vine trunk as he mumbled, “Idiot. Its just me.”

“Fortunately!” Antonio trilled cheerfully, fingers sweeping further into the mess that was Lovino’s hair, pushing gently through tangles to trail down over his ears, one thumb tracing over the pulse point under his jaw.

Lovino closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, feeling the tension of the day bleed away under the gentle insistence of Antonio’s affectionate fingers, murmuring, “What the fuck did you come out here for? I still have half a row to finish.”

He opened his eyes when Antonio grasped his chin, tilting his head back to rest on the slope of Antonio’s hip, feeling his stomach flood with want and hunger at the admiration and desire in the green of Antonio’s gaze and the gorgeous morsel of food Antonio held in his other hand.

“I brought you a cheer up charm,” Antonio answered slyly, smiling slightly as he brought his other hand forward to wave a piece of jamon iberico in front of Lovino’s suddenly ravenous mouth.

“Thank God,” Lovino said a sigh, parting his lips to let Antonio feed him the ham, not so hungry that he didn’t notice the narrowing of Antonio’s eyes and the flick of tongue over his lips as ate from his fingers, “You finally had a goddamned decent reason to interrupt me.”

Antonio pouted playfully at him, “Don’t be so uncute, sweetheart, or I won’t give you the rest of the charm.”

Lovino rolled his eyes and tried not to blush, all too aware that Antonio would never not give him anything he asked for, the softhearted moron.

“Who says I want it, bastard? I told you’ve I’ve got shit to do. Some of us don't have the luxury of sitting around flirting with Americans all day.”

Antonio shook his head, winking as he stepped away, leaving Lovino to miss the comforting strokes of his hand until he saw what it was for which Antonio had abandoned him.

“Don’t be silly, Lovino,” Antonio purred, handing him the bottle and settling down onto the ground, as nonplussed and blithely oblivious as ever, “Today I flirted with the French and they gave me this. Perfect for a romantic summer’s evening.”

Scowling, Lovino eyed the wine, knowing exactly which fucking French charmer had put it into Antonio’s stupid hands, “Nothing goddamned romantic about it. I’m fucking dirty and you’re an idiot who brings me pink wine from your bastard pervert friend.”

Antonio just shrugged and tossed him a bottle opener, as though he knew that Lovino was going to open it anyways, because even though it had been smuggled into his fucking house by a meddlesome French asshole, the Bandol rosé was going to taste so goddamned good.

With a long suffering sigh, Lovino gave in, slouching and throwing his legs out in front of him, jabbing Antonio’s calf with his dusty toes in retaliation for bringing him frog-juice. Ignoring Antonio’s knowing and too fond smile, he made expert work of the foil and the cork, smirking as he took several long, drags straight from the bottle, enjoying the way Antonio watched his throat move as he swallowed.

The pervert had clearly been under French influence today.

It must have been the heatstroke or the exhaustion, or perhaps the unbelievable relief of having the perfection of simple wine that tasted like dried strawberries and Provencal sun pouring into his mouth, that made Lovino slide his foot up the inside of Antonio’s leg, closing his eyes and sighing in pleasure as he passed the bottle across the tangle of their limbs in the dirt.

“So romantic, so adorable,” Antonio hummed sweetly, the dangerous tone of his voice making Lovino crack open one tired eye to gaze suspiciously at the crinkles of happiness around Antonio’s mouth before he took a lazy swig, and dropped his hand down to cup the dusty arch of Lovino’s tired foot.

“I fucking told you there’s nothing romantic about you, me, and shit wine in the dirt,” Lovino grumbled, words shamefully breathy, bordering on flirtatious, traitorous foot flexing within Antonio’s broad palm.

Antonio smiled at him, low and hot, pulling him slowly closer with his trapped ankle, dragging him through the ground that gave life to their wine, murmuring, “Well, I would of course prefer that it was me and Lovino and Lovino’s beautiful wine in the dirt, but we’ll have to wait a few more months for that.”

“Try a few more years, idiot,” Lovino answered softly, letting himself be tugged so near that his leg was now pushed over Antonio’s thigh, toes tracing patterns in the dust behind him as he thought about their future in terms of vintages, wondering how it would be between them when the tiny green grapes on the vines behind him had matured into something wholly new and darkly rich.

Antonio reached for him with both hands now, running his fingers though the streaks of dirt and sweat along his cheeks and down his neck, smiling that same smile that had thrice damned him at ten, eighteen, and twenty-five.

“I definitely will try then, too...I promise.” Antonio said with far too much solemnity for a man on his ass in the middle of vineyard, for all that the earnestness of his declaration made Lovino’s heart trip and his hands clench against Antonio’s warm, solid chest.

And then, as he expected, as he wanted, Antonio leaned towards him with those fucking perfect lips, pulling him inches closer until his eyes fluttered shut and his own mouth parted in anxious, wanting expectation.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Lovino hissed, eyes flying open as he felt Antonio’s mouth forgo the kiss and instead press hot and wet over his throat, tongue stroking over his pulse. Antonio said nothing, just kept sucking and licking his neck, little nips and too short kisses over his skin.

“Idiot, you’re going to get a fucking mouthful of dust doing that,” Lovino protested weakly, fisting one hand in Antonio’s shirt to draw him in closer, threading the fingers of the other through the waves of his dark hair, pulling until the moron stopped to explain himself, making Lovino’s cock twitch at the sight of his damp, reddened lips when he finally dragged away.

Antonio winked at him and hauled Lovino into his lap, letting him feel his desire, pushing both hands up the back of his shirt, kneading the tired soreness of his back, licking his lips as he answered, much like the cat who ate the fucking cream, “Mmm, I don’t mind. I like tasting my terroir.”

Lovino smirked through the racing of his heart and the lust blossoming across his cheeks, rolling his hips over Antonio’s cock, kissing away his answering groan with little touches of his lips, refusing to give Antonio the fullness of his kiss.

“You better mean _our_ terroir, you fucker,” Lovino sighed against Antonio’s cheek, knowing that his _fucker_ sounded much like an endearment, edging the firm line of his jaw with the slide of his teeth, continuing the slow rock in Antonio’s lap, taking his pleasure from the brush of his cock against Antonio’s, teasing them both with the deliberateness of his pace.

“Of course I do, sweetheart,” Antonio said in a voice thick and sinful, “It tastes even better when its ours.”

Whatever Lovino had intended to say was drowned in the ensuing rush of desire brought on by Antonio’s sweetly possessive kiss, lazy and cloying as summer heat, drawing out his ardor, intoxicating him more surely than the strawberry blush of Francis’ wine.

They were tangled so close that Lovino could smell saffron and cooking oil on Antonio’s skin, could feel the dirt from his fingers leaving traces across the planes of Antonio’s neck as he grasped at him, desperate to be ever nearer.

Absently, Lovino wondered how long he had been waiting for this, for Antonio to come to him once more amongst the vines, his two greatest passions intertwining so wonderfully under a silent, unspeaking sky in this place, his secret kingdom.

When he felt the pleased curve of Antonio’s smile against his own reluctantly happy mouth, Lovino smirked and bit down on Antonio’s lip, swallowing his shocked moan before shoving him down on his back, hair and skin mingling with the dust of their earth.

He clamped his thighs over Antonio’s arching hips, forcing him to stay down as he reached for the abandoned Bandol with one hand and pressed the other to the cock straining into his thigh, squeezing gently while he drank deeply from the bottle and watched Antonio go hazy and taut with lust.

“You’re damned right it tastes better when its ours,” Lovino said hotly, unzipping Antonio’s pants and pushing his shirt up his chest, “But for now you’ll have to settle for this shit you brought me.”

And as Lovino let therosé spill out of the bottle to splash against the tanned dip of Antonio’s stomach, sluicing down to mingle with the dirt, Antonio laughed and squirmed, hands flexing on inside Lovino’s thighs.

Lovino smiled rare and true at the sight of Antonio resplendent and debauched under him, flush in the evening light, his body leaning into each of Lovino’s touches, far more appealing than a bottle of summertime wine, no matter how good or how perfect, making him drunk with desire.

“Are you sure I didn’t find Bacchus?” Antonio said breathlessly when Lovino dipped one hand into his pants, taking Antonio’s cock into his palm and sliding firmly down.

Shifting onto his knees, keeping his hand wrapped around Antonio, stroking him with idle, teasing touches, Lovino kissed the idiocy from Antonio’s mouth, greedy and insistent until Antonio was arching into the circle of his fingers and the twist of his tongue.

“Idiot, as if Bacchus has fuck all to do with this,” Lovino murmured into his ear, flush with power and desire, lifting his hips to allow Antonio to fumble hastily with his zipper, “This is my domain. Everything in it belongs to me. Including you, bastard.”

“Yes, yes, absolutely, this, all of it, I belong to you,” Antonio murmured incoherently, mouthing at the curve of Lovino’s shoulder, finally sliding his hand into Lovino’s pants, stroking him a little too hard and a little too fast to be anything but delicious.

Once more Lovino kissed Antonio to stem the tide of his words, deep and needy, an embarrassingly honest sigh whispering out from between his lips that sounded too fucking much like a return of the sentiment.

Lovino's knees and his back screamed at him to stop, reminding him of the hours he spent bent in front of needy vines, but the ache in his cock was greater, the sweet drag of Antonio’s knowing fingers up and down his length driving him fucking crazy, forcing him to remind Antonio of his place with another dirty, wet embrace, all lips and hot, panting breath.

“Fuck,” Lovino bit off, arching away to sit on his heels, watching the slide of Antonio’s fingers over his cock and his own hand stroking Antonio, the smell of warm earth and lush vines in his nose and precious grit on his skin, eyes catching on the half row of yet unculled vines, “You’re such a damned distraction. I’m going to make you wash my fucking hair and rub my goddamned back until your hands hurt for wasting my time like this.”

Antonio bucked into him, twisting his wrist and flicking his thumb across the head of his cock, his answer broken and breathless, “Anything for my Lovino, since I am going to distract him always.”

“Goddamned right,” Lovino panted, arching over Antonio once more, bringing their dicks together, letting Antonio grab wildly at his hand so they could tease and torment as one, as messy and wanton as a fuck in the dirt with a kiss as rich and lingering as the wine in the far reaches of the cellar, “And you’ll always fucking have to make it up to me.”

With a sharp, startled inhale, Antonio stiffened and came over Lovino’s fingers, slicking his cock and their hands with come, their strokes wild and uncontrolled as Antonio gasped into his shoulder and urged him on with sweet, idiotic nothings in broken Italian.

And when Antonio murmured to him of a slow, sweet fuck in the shower, all badly pronounced promises of unwinding him with hot water and hot touches, Lovino was compelled to kiss him once more to stop his mouth, pushing his hips into the wet slide of their still joined hands, coming with a groan and collapsing into Antonio’s waiting chest.

Hazily, Lovino registered the feel of Antonio’s hands dragging up and down his arms, making him even dirtier, though the touch was so possessive and warm that he couldn’t bring himself to do more than grumble a protest into the muffle of Antonio’s hiked up shirt, knowing that he was further staining his own clothing with the remnants of therosé that had poured so temptingly over Antonio’s stomach.

Besides, Antonio owed him a fucking shower. And fucking dinner. And, well, fucking. Somewhere that didn’t involve dirt and earth and the sound of cicadas.

With a groan, Lovino raised his head from the rapid beating of Antonio’s heart, blushing as Antonio attempted to pull his pants back up, taking far more time than necessary to let his fingers trail over the curves of his ass. He was beginning to suspect that idiot Antonio would be perfectly content to spend the rest of the evening splayed out in the dirt with Lovino draped over him like a sweaty, satiated blanket.

“Lovino?” Antonio murmured, the rumble of his voice thrumming in Lovino’s chest.

He turned his face to meet Antonio’s searching lips that had been racing across his brow with lazy, wandering kisses.

“What?”

“You’re right,” Antonio said brightly, making Lovino frown with confusion.

“I usually fucking am, so you are going to have to be more specific, bastard,” Lovino grumbled without bite, accepting the slow dip of Antonio’s kiss, indulging in the thick pleasure of completion with the anticipation of more to come.

Antonio smiled at him when the kiss had poured out entirely, damning Lovino all over again as he said:

“Bacchus doesn’t have anything to do with this. Its always been Venus.”


End file.
